all that's left of yesterday
by MerryH
Summary: "He hears a voice, whispering about lashes and you're my favorite thing, you know? and he thinks maybe he's really going crazy this time, not sort of crazy because of deadlines and costumes and pinpricks." Warnings: Character death, serious angst.


It's snowing in New York, but it shouldn't be.

The sky is bright blue and yet the snow falls like it's always been there, a part of the scenery that everyone has grown to accept, to love. The sun is burning through his skin and yet he's cold, freezing to his core, and he can't work out why, so he just walks forward and pulls his coat further around him. A flake drifts down to land on his face and he hears a voice, whispering about lashes and _you__'__re __my__ favorite __thing, __you __know?_ and he thinks maybe he's really going crazy this time, not sort of crazy because of deadlines and costumes and pinpricks.

There's a dog a few feet away and it's twirling around a fire hydrant, and he's never liked dogs, not really, but this one is dark and it's eyes are wide and sad, it looks like he's trying to apologize, which is crazy, because what could the dog have done to him? Suddenly it stops twirling and it barks at him, rough and _why __are__ you__ yelling __at __me?_and he feels his stomach lurch as it trots away quickly to turn the corner as the snow starts turning it white.

He follows it, trying not to run, because he doesn't know if he might scare it off, doesn't know if he maybe he wants to try, but when he turns the corner there's just a door, and the dog is gone. He isn't sure if he should knock, but before he has the chance to raise his hand it swings open, and he's in an apartment. It's beautiful, furnished in rich colors, richer than he's ever seen, and he lifts a hand to his eyes to shield the glow that is bouncing off every surface, every place somebody might have once sat. He wants to set it on fire but it already is on fire, alight with memories that he can't place. He feels around as he tries to step into the apartment and hears the dog again, but it's lilting this time, a soft _I__ want __you __to__ be_, and he follows the noise till his hand collides with a couch.

He sits, and the room suddenly plunges into black, and he can't see anything. It feels like he's floating, but there's that empty lurch in his gut that tells him he isn't, that this isn't where he's meant to be, this isn't meant to be his life. Somewhere a phone rings and it's getting louder and louder and he screams for it to stop but it just rings over and over in his ears until he claws at his hair, and he's about to tear himself apart until silence drops heavy like a blanket.

Suddenly it's gone, and he's in a park, Central Park, and this time it's overcast. There's a picnic laid out, with champagne and grapes and meticulously prepared sandwiches. There's a bag lying on the other side of the picnic, and it's filled with ransom letters, cut out from newspaper and magazines, spilling out onto the ground and every time the wind blows it spells something new, like _oh, __there__ you __are_, and he wants to rip them up but before he can reach for them somebody is dropping down next to him and taking his hand.

It's warm and gentle but he can't look whoever it is in the eyes, so he just lies down on his back and closes his own as the person cards a finger through his hair, and something tells him he should be protesting, but he can't be bothered, not when he's feeling so sated and happy, and he thinks he hears a deep rumble say _I__ love__ you_ quietly, but it feels like it was the wind, so he doesn't say anything back.

The ground bottoms out when he doesn't speak, and the figure is gone, and he's staring at a bed, empty with sheets pulled back. He wants to reach out and fix the way the beds been made, because it doesn't look right, it should be crumpled, it should be slept in, not this blank canvas of nothingness that is staring at him, asking him questions - not like he has any answers. There's a small coffin on the bedside table, ornate and intricate, like it's been tended to with careful hands, laced with jewels, and before he gets a chance to reach for it, to fill the silence in the room, it opens, and a melody is twisting out of it.

He's heard it before, he knows he has, and he hears something about being young forever, but he can't imagine why anyone would want to can't place it though, and it's getting louder like the phone, so he moves forward to shut the lid. A little bird flies out before he can, a bird he could have sworn he knew once, goldenrod and full of song, but for some reason something is telling him the bird he just saw was black, it was always black, that's why he's here in this room. He follows it out of the door but rather than the ICU unit he was expecting he's in a different hallway.

It's his high school, or one of them, and he can see the staircase, and he wonders for a moment why it's so empty. He feels like he's intruding on something private, and he can tell he is when he watches a boy make his way down the stairs, his footsteps echoing off the tall ceilings. He watches another boy, about to hurry past, but he's stopped by the other, and even though he can't read lips he could swear they're saying _you __move __me_ and _you__ take__ my __breath__ away_, but they're shaking hands like they just met, so that can't be right, could it?

They link hands and suddenly he does throw up, bright blue ribbons, and he ducks into the nearest classroom, watching out the window that seems to expand for him as they run down the hallway, but one of the boys can't keep up, and it's like he's flickering in the light, because as beautiful as he is the light refuses to settle on him. They're not in uniform anymore, suddenly one has a tiara and a kilt and the other, the boy who can't catch the light, is in a tuxedo, but it looks like it's made of air because of the way it shimmers.

Suddenly he's gone and the first boy is alone again, turning to look behind him in confusion. He suddenly turns and looks right at the window, and they lock eyes. He puts a hand on the doorknob, wanting to reach out to him, to ask him what's going on, why he's here, but the other boy screams and it all rips away from him and once again he's somewhere else entirely.

He's in another house, a room, and he hears another song he could swear he knows, and suddenly he feels hot all over, hotter than he did out in the snow. _Because__ of__ the __layers?_ something asks him, and he ignores it. He moves to lay on the bed, staring at a dancing ceiling, and suddenly there's a warmth beside him, and he knows immediately it will be the man with the rumbling voice. He reaches for him, still afraid to look into his eyes, still unsure why he wants to reach for him at all, and arms pull him close. He feels like if he moves at all he might fall in, right into the center of the man with the voice, and it frightens him, because he's already lost himself enough, he doesn't know where he is, can he really lose himself in this person too?

He doesn't need to worry though, because someone is speaking and everything melts away. He can't really hear the words, but he doesn't need to, because he knows what they're saying. He's heard them before, maybe in a storybook like the ones his mother used to read for him when he couldn't sleep, but these sound like they made just for him, like language only started to exist when these words came into play. He wants to reach out and touch the words but instead he opens his eyes and chances a look up.

There's a boyish smile waiting for him, like he knew he would look eventually and a part of him deep down hates that this stranger knows him so well. He wants to ask who are you, what are you to me, why do I feel like I know you, and something begs him to ask him to _name __your__ favorite__ 2010__ Vogue__ cover,_ but instead he's kissed, and all the questions and answers don't matter anymore, they never mattered, because this is where he was searching for, this was the place he never knew he needed to be, and he scrambles to hold onto it as it starts to slip away, and the last thing he hears is a murmured _I__'__ll __see __you __tonight, __darling _before he wakes up crying, alone in his bed, remembering like he does every night when he is reminded in his sleep, that his tonight is never going to come.


End file.
